


The king's choice

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, F/M, Fluff, Jealousy, Kissing, Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 00:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6099654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwarven ladies flock to the newly crowned Thorin, but his heart lies elsewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The king's choice

You ducked behind the stone pillar just in time as the little clique of dwarrowdams sailed by, chattering excitedly amongst themselves like a flock of hens.

“Did you see that Halda danced with him twice last night?”

“No! Did she?”

“Yes! She said he was most kind to her.”

“She told _me_ she wouldn’t be surprised if there was an announcement to be made before long.”

“Well, her father has been promoting the match, I’ve seen him at the King’s elbow at every opportunity.”

They tittered with gleeful laughter as their voices faded from your hearing, and you sighed and awkwardly tugged at the bodice of your ballgown, pulling a bit of scratchy lace away from your skin. The coronation festivities had been going on for three days, now. Wine and ale flowed freely, the kitchens of Erebor produced one abundant, rich feast after another, and Thorin was constantly surrounded by women.

Dwarrowdams from noble families had positively swarmed the new king – like vultures to a carcass, you thought derisively – and you had given up rolling your eyes at the way they simpered and giggled and preened, vying for his attention.

As a human, most of these high-born dwarven ladies viewed you with a mixture of fascination and disdain, and more than once you’d overheard whispers of “scrawny,” “face smoother than a baby’s,” and “poor thing.” Knowing that you would likely once again be the object of their curious, appraising glances, you squared your shoulders and walked into the Great Hall.

The merrymaking was in full swing, cheerful music playing and food and drink weighing down the long tables. The first sight to meet your eyes was Thorin, standing before the head table, the dwarrowdam called Halda entwining her arm with his. Her father, a dwarf lord from the Iron Hills, stood talking with Thorin while his daughter hung on the king’s every word, the dainty braid in her blonde beard quivering with her eagerness to smile, and laugh, and cock her head to look adoringly at him. You found you had one more eye roll left in you as you turned away and made for a seat at the table next to Kili.

“There you are!” he greeted you cheerfully, his face turning concerned as he noticed your stormy expression. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” you muttered. “I need a drink.”

Kili reached for a pitcher of ale and filled the goblet before you, and you took a long gulp. “Slow down,” he advised jokingly. “You’ve got the whole night ahead of you yet.” 

With a dry chuckle, you nodded, but his attention was diverted by one of the ladies you’d overheard talking just moments ago, approaching him with an invitation to dance. They left the table and your eyes wandered, as of their own accord, to Thorin, and you were surprised to find him looking at you over the shoulder of Halda’s father. He gave you a small smile, which you ventured to return before dropping your glance to your lap. When you looked up again, he was listening attentively to something the lady herself was saying. An inexplicable pang seemed to pierce you, and as you sipped from your cup, the ale tasted bitter in your mouth. With a sigh of resignation, you laid your napkin back on the table, stood, and quietly slipped from the hall.

Back in your chamber, you sat heavily on your bed. How had it come to this? All those weeks with the company, Thorin was your leader, your employer, you’d been bound to him only by a signed contract and the payment owed. You had done this a hundred times before. And yet, somewhere along the way, as you’d followed the dwarven king and fought for him – and occasionally with him – you had come to love him. You loved his loyalty and steadfastness, his determination, his honor. You loved his radiant smile that was all the more precious for being so rare. You loved that he had slowly fallen into the habit of making your mug of tea by the morning campfire along with his own, when the two of you were always the earliest risers. 

But none of that mattered now. You had your share of the profit, and he had his lady, and that was that. Decisively, you rose to your feet and unlaced the ornate gown that had been brought from Dale for you to wear to the coronation and the accompanying celebrations. You looked fondly at the dress, running your fingers over its intricate embroidery, reflecting that it had been unusually thoughtful of Thorin to provide it, and hung it carefully in the oaken wardrobe. You wouldn’t be needing it where you were going.

Slipping on one of your everyday dresses of soft, well-worn linen, you breathed more easily, and set about your task. Rummaging in the bottom of the wardrobe, you brought out your pack, already heavy with the pouch of gold that had been your payment for your service to the company. You drew out your traveling clothes of trousers, boots, tunic, and a slim-fitting coat you’d been given by the elves of Rivendell, and laid them on a chair, ready for the next morning. Your bow and quiver, full of new, dwarf-made arrows, joined them. Returning to the wardrobe, you began to take out your clothes, piece by piece, and place them, neatly folded, in your pack.

You were startled from your work by a knock at the door. Pausing to weigh your options, you elected to ignore it, not wishing for anything to dissuade you from your plan.

And then, his voice. Thorin’s deep, rich voice, calling your name.

You felt as though the conflict between your desire to be near him and your need to flee from the feelings he inspired would tear you in two, but you walked slowly to the door and opened it. He stood on your threshold with a curious expression. 

“You left the feast when you’d only just arrived,” he observed. “Is everything all right?”

You could not bring forth the lie. “Isn’t the King meant to attend his own party?” you asked instead, crossing again to the wardrobe.

“He is also meant to be concerned with the welfare of his guests,” he replied, with a smile that faded as his eyes took in your open pack and obvious preparations for travel. He entered and closed the door behind him. “What are you doing?” 

You chuckled wryly, adding another tunic to the pack. “Really, Thorin, your powers of observation are slipping.”

“You mean to leave us.”

You paused, taking a deep breath to harden your resolve. “At first light. I’ll only trouble you for a pony, and provisions to last me until Esgaroth.”

“Where will you go?” His voice sounded strained.

“Not sure,” you admitted. “I’ll look for work…someone, somewhere is bound to need a hired bow.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “It will not be the same without you,” he said softly.

Your heart seemed to flop in your chest, like a fish out of water. “I’m sure you’ll be busy enough,” you said, with false brightness, “rumor has it you’re to be betrothed any day now.”

His brow furrowed. “Betrothed?”

“Yes, of course. It is fitting, after all,” you babbled on, “you will need a consort, and Halda is of noble blood, attractive, obviously besotted with you. What more could you wish for?”

As you spoke the words, three days of pent-up tears suddenly stung your eyes, and you turned abruptly away from him, balling your hands into fists and pressing them against your brow bone, trying desperately to regain your composure. You couldn’t cry, couldn’t be humiliated by your foolish longing. Not in front of him.

“What more could I wish for?” he repeated. He paused, as though considering. “For someone whose stubbornness is a match for my own. For someone who has shared my hardships and my victories…someone whose strength makes those silly, prattling gossips seem all the more ridiculous.” 

You turned to look at him, stunned, slowly lowering your hands, and he took a step closer to you, reaching tentatively to brush a loose tendril of hair away from your face. The corners of his eyes crinkled in a tender smile. “I could wish for you…amrâlimê.”

Your mind was racing with questions and emotions, but it caught on the strange word. Traveling with the company, you’d heard plenty of Khuzdul, even added a few curses to your vocabulary thanks to Nori’s tutelage, but this phrase was unfamiliar to you. “What does that mean?” you asked, with a shake of your head.

He was so close, you could smell the scent of pipe smoke and leather. “It means I need you to stay. It means I have never been interested in Halda…it means…” His voice trailed off as his lips captured yours, slowly at first, then more eagerly as you emerged from the fog of disbelief to respond, your fingers grasping the soft fur collar of his royal robe to pull him closer, his arms around you.

“Thorin,” you murmured against his cheek as he held you, “is it truly me that you want?”

He pulled back to look into your eyes, taking your face in his hands. “I want no one else.”

You gave a small frown. “I was certain that you were in love with her.”

He shook his head reassuringly. “I was only being polite.”

“Forgive me, I am not accustomed to seeing that,” you said, a teasing tone creeping into your voice, and he laughed, embracing you tightly.

“I am glad to see that you have recovered your wit, it is one of the things I love most about you,” he smiled, kissing you once more, and it was your turn to laugh. He clasped your hand in both of his. “Will you come back to the party with me?”

“I should change my clothes, I am not dressed for it,” you answered, glancing toward your formal gown.

“You would look beautiful in rags, my love,” he said, bringing your hand to his lips. “Come with me,” he pleaded, with a twinkle in his eyes. “We have rumors to dispel.”


End file.
